


60.2%

by Dach (Dach_Dulcet)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (but I wrote it at like 3am so it's either really good or incoherent shit), Ambiguous Medical Procedures, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Coulson's Resurrection, Ficlet, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Minor OCD, Phil Coulson Needs a Hug, Project T.A.H.I.T.I., Psychological Torture, Suicidal Thoughts, canonical character revival, mental trauma, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 05:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13967928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dach_Dulcet/pseuds/Dach
Summary: Phil Coulson knew the importance of numbers. And 60.2 was no insignificant number. Especially when it represented the mortality rate of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.





	60.2%

**Author's Note:**

> lmao sorry bro idk what this is

Coulson had known what he was getting into.

He’d known it when he’d been recruited, fresh out of highschool.

He’d known it when he’d realized that the words “Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division” meant a lot more than their cumulative denotation.

He’d known it when Fury had told him to take either a promotion or an out.

He’d known it when he’d signed on the manage the draft “Avengers Initiative.”

He’d known it when he’d challenged Loki with far more bravado than he actually felt.

From the start, he’d known it: S.H.I.E.L.D.’s mortality rate. After all, as someone who masqueraded as a paper-pusher from time to time, he knew the importance of numbers. 

His recruiter had looked a bit shocked when he - some 18-year-old kid, at the time - had asked the question only ten minutes into their discussion.

60.2.

60.2%.

Highschool-graduate Coulson had felt a little more knowledgeable about the whole thing after his recruiter had (uncomfortably) divulged that number.

60.2% of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents die or are otherwise unaccounted for.

Of course, at first, Coulson had figured that he’d be in the exemplary 39.8 percent that survived it all. Then he realized that that percent was mostly just the interns, the people working in the Records Department, and tech-iest parts of the Weapons Development Sector.

All in all, most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents died, sooner or later.

It took him about a week to accept it.

And he was okay with that.

And so he joined.

He’d known “60.2%” going in.

And sure, the instant that Loki paused and turned to face him, his insides kind of froze. But that was just shock. After a few seconds, all of him had started to work again. 

And sure, it may have been possible that his entire mind-state was composed of “fuck it, I’m just going to take liberties in killing this asshole.”

But he was pretty okay with that.

He’d prepared for this possibility.

Of course, that didn’t make Loki’s scepter piercing through his back and  _ tearing _ through him any less painful. Still, he’d managed to get in one good shot (even though it fucking  _ hurt _ ).

So he was pretty relieved that he skipped the whole sense of “ _ oh shit I’m going to die _ ” and just went straight to the “ _ well, it had to happen eventually _ ” phase.

He’d known it was coming.

He clocked out, murmuring to Fury in his final moments of consciousness what could probably count as a resignation. He was tired. And he was about to die.

In a sense, it was actually somewhat comforting.

And so Agent Phil Coulson died, just as he’d known he would.

* * *

 

He awoke on his back, laying on an examining table, sheets cold under his naked skin and the sounds of robotics whirring just behind his head.

“This is wrong.” 

Coulson didn’t know the voice. The voice- Coulson agreed. This wasn’t right. Something so cold that it burned wrapped its fingers around his heart, clutching, clutching until he felt that he could burst. Maybe it was dread. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was death. But it couldn’t be death. It  _ couldn’t _ be death. But he wanted it to be.

“Don’t,” he tried to protest, the sound of his own voice almost surprising him. It was hoarse, but nevertheless audible. “ _ Stop! _ ”

The voice continued- another voice (Fury? Fury ordered this?).

Coulson looked up to the mirror above his upturned face, willing himself to take stock of the image it reflected.  _ God, no _ . He knew this procedure. He’d authorized the research of it. And he’d shut it down. 

He had  _ died _ . Phil Coulson had  _ died _ and had been all the better for it. This was all wrong. They were- fuck, they were  _ cheating _ his numbers. He had to die. This whole- this whole thing was artificial! 

‘ _ No _ !’ he begged, screamed in his mind.

He  _ couldn’t  _ be alive.

_ Didn’t they understand!?  _

“Let me die,” he managed, voice thick and shaking. He hadn’t realized that he’d said it, at first. But he’d meant it. “ _ Please. _ ” And then the words continued to escape him and he didn’t want to say them but they had to know, the surgeons  _ had _ to know. They couldn't do this.

_ It didn’t add up. It had been his time to die. _

_ This whole thing was a violation. _

He’s been okay with his death. 

He’d always known: 60.2 percent of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents die. 

But some infinitesimal percentage of  _ that _ percentage was just a lie. 

The numbers were never real.

A surgeon spoke quietly, informing the room en masse: “Patient’s vitals steady.”


End file.
